Landing on His Feet
by Vitawash
Summary: From a prompt: Sherlock dies at the pool and is reincarnated as a black cat with blue eyes. Molly Hooper, of all people, adopts reincarnated!Cat!Sherlock. Sherlock is not exactly pleased with this development.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Bored didn't sound quite like he remembered it sounding, unfortunately. It was more a screechy, bloodcurdling howl that had no effect on other people other than to tell him to shut up. John would have probably said it wasn't much different, but then John wasn't here to tell him so.

John was notably absent because Sherlock had woken up after the pool not as himself, but as a drowsy, skinny, chronically hungry black kitten. Nineteen weeks later, he was a considerably larger, less drowsy, still skinny black adolescent cat. He had been removed from his mother (who kept eyeing him skeptically – perhaps because all of his rather dim siblings were ginger or white) at six weeks, given the name of Midnight and placed in his own cage. He had little more to do than bathe and eat, bat the occasional pathetic toy around and hiss at the shelter staff when they tried to pet him. Every so often, he liked to voice his displeasure at the situation.

"If you don't quit that yowling, no one's going to adopt you," the shelter woman – who had the appalling name of Trixie - said tiredly. She had tried in vain to help Sherlock find a home with nice elderly ladies, with cheery Wiccans, with librarians, insurance adjustors, and what Trixie thought was a nice couple, although Sherlock concluded that they were about to implode in a nasty divorce when the wife realized her husband wasn't actually at the gym all those nights. Sherlock had become incredibly hopeful himself when a seemingly bright police constable had come in – only to recoil when the man turned out to have a five year old son.

Sherlock remembered being five years old, and Mummy's poor, tortured Russian Blue, Greymalkin. No, he did not want any part of that household, thank you very much.

The bell rang and Trixie went up front, opening the door to admit yet another woman looking for a cat. At first Sherlock ignored her, figuring she'd want something fluffier and cuter and kitten-er, and then he heard her giggle, and his ears flicked upwards in recognition.

"Took me a while after Toby died," She was saying to Trixie. "I just wasn't ready for a new cat and then I saw one of those RSPCA ads online and well – here I am." Sherlock pressed up against the front of his cage, trying to see her. Molly Hooper, looking for a new cat. He couldn't believe his luck – wait, maybe he could. Molly would probably expect a new cat to sit in her lap and be sweet and cuddle and wear a ridiculous collar with a bell. These duties were decidedly not of interest to Sherlock.

"Look at you, how lovely. What a nice coat you have." Molly smiled into his cage before Sherlock had the chance to slink to the back again.

"You – you might not want that fellow – " Trixie began. "He's a bit – stroppy."

"Doesn't seem so bad," Molly replied, smiling. Sherlock had intended to back away, really he had, but he was genuinely shocked to be looking _up_ at Molly for the first time in his acquaintance with her. Trixie opened the cage and gingerly lifted Sherlock out, seemingly waiting for him to explode in a ball of yowling and claws as he sometimes did when he wasn't in the mood to be moved. This time, however, he played limp, letting Molly fold him into her arms. She smelled horrible, a strange mix of death and hand sanitizer and artificial raspberry lotion, although he had never noticed anything unpleasant about her fragrance before. Being a cat had meant all sorts of adjustments to his senses that he didn't expect. Still, she'd come straight from work, then, and a long day in the morgue hadn't gotten the idea of a new pet off her mind.

At any rate, lotion was negotiable, and Molly was possibly the best – all right, Molly was the _only_ prospective adopter Sherlock had faced all month. She scratched behind his ears, then under his chin, which was...well, it was nice, in fact. Sherlock surprised himself with the purr that rumbled through his chest.

"See, not so bad," Molly said softly, as Trixie stared at them, utterly dumbfounded that Sherlock would allow anyone to do that.

"I'll take him," she said warmly. Sherlock tensed slightly, but then considered the alternative. The cage was beyond boring. The other cats and Trixie were even duller than Molly. Who for all her sentimentality had always doted on Toby and therefore probably took excellent care of him, and who wouldn't be all that hard to escape from, if need be. He put some effort into the purr, and bumped his head under Molly's chin.

"See? We'll get along just fine," Molly assured Trixie, and when Sherlock was placed back in the cage, he knew it was only a matter of paperwork and time before he was free again.


	2. Chapter 2

Seeing the inside of Molly's flat made Sherlock question whether freedom was actually worth it. While his color vision was reduced as a cat, somehow the aesthetic qualities of Molly's flat still deeply offended him. It was all a bit too much – overstuffed chairs and excess throw pillows, things with embroidery and pictures of cats. Sherlock immediately hid under the couch and closed his eyes against the onslaught. He was going to need to redecorate, that much was clear. Although if he did, he couldn't imagine that Molly wouldn't replace anything he destroyed with more fluff, and it was unlikely that she'd develop a taste for anything more elegant. Also he really didn't want to go back to that cage, and he supposed that could happen if Molly concluded he was too feral to stay there.

In the kitchen, Molly was putting out food and water. No more coffee, he realized, and felt oddly bereft. After she disappeared into her bedroom he padded out and sniffed. Slightly higher quality than in the shelter, but it was still cat food. He wondered if Molly ate much takeaway, and if she'd let him have any.

Sherlock spent the next few days getting acquainted with the features of Molly's flat. The litter box situation was appalling as usual, although Molly kept things very clean for him and provided a small shelter for privacy. She bought a new cat bed to replace Toby's, but Sherlock preferred the sofa.

Bathing was just awkward. He waited till Molly went to work for that.

To Sherlock's delight, while Molly was out at Bart's, he found that there was a window in the kitchen that opened onto the fire escape. Sherlock nudged the latch and it fell open. Not large enough for a person, but plenty of room for himself. Using the fire escape, he made his way down to the street.

Oh, London! It was splendid, the alley ways and streets all seemed new to him now, and yet the maps of the city in his mind remained flawless in his memory. Sherlock roamed Molly's neighborhood, inspecting rubbish bins, slipping in and out of the doors of the shops, and chasing pigeons in the park. He didn't even miss having a murder to investigate, although he was unsure how long that feeling would last.

Sherlock noticed the sun going down after a few hours and made his way back to the flat. Even the alley behind the flat was interesting on its own. He noted the scents of other cats, of the noisy Pomeranian in the building next door, of freshly fried falafel from the Middle Eastern restaurant. Sherlock had rarely been all that interested in food before, but he had to admit that as a feline it took up far more of his interest. Perhaps Molly would notice how good the food smelled on her way home, and if she liked kebabs he could sneak a bit for himself.

Really, décor aside, Molly had been an excellent owner so far. She did want him to be more of a lap cat than he liked the idea of being, but she seemed to think he was skittish and that was the end of it. At least for now.

Cats brought back tributes, didn't they? Dead mice and such for their owners. That would be a normal sort of thing to do, and it would be best not to raise suspicion. Sherlock crouched in the alley and waited for a small gray something to inevitably appear from the pile of trash bags outside the kebab house's back door. His mother had tried to teach them all to be mousers, warning them that humans often expected this duty of cats. Sherlock had been terrible at sharing, adequate at play fighting, and barely tolerated being bathed. However, he had been very, very good at the mousing.

At least he had when the mice had been stuffed. This one was moving of course, and Sherlock smacked into the wall instead. He was fairly certain it snickered at him before zipping off. No gift for Molly today, then, and he needed to get back before she arrived home and found the open window. Sherlock bounded up the fire escape and landed in the kitchen with minutes to spare.

"I've a treat for you," Molly cooed, and Sherlock really hoped it wasn't a jumper because he'd have to claw her eyes out when she tried to put it on him and that would be a shame at this point.

She placed a stuffed sausage-looking thing on the floor and Sherlock briefly felt like she was mocking him. He approached it and sniffed. That was...odd. Minty, sort of, but also grassy, and – oh. He liked it. He really, really, _really_ liked it. He spent the rest of the evening dashing around the flat and rolling around purring happily with the catnip sausage. Molly laughed at him all the while and he could not have cared less.

When she came home from work the next day, she seemed sad and tense, and Sherlock wondered if there had been something very unpleasant among her duties that day. She sank tiredly into the sofa after dinner, and Sherlock considered hiding in his bed for a moment before deciding that he could concede this to her. He leapt onto the sofa and settled into her lap (no more disgusting raspberry lotion, thank you, lavender and cardamom instead) and let her stroke his fur, noticing how her pulse slowed, how her breaths became longer and more relaxed. He felt sleepy himself after a few minutes, and despite the noise and glitter of Strictly Come Dancing on the television, he drifted off.

He awoke during the news, to the announcement of a missing persons case in London. In his old life he would have been texting up a storm to Lestrade right now. As a cat he had no idea if he would ever solve a murder again.

When Sherlock encountered the unusual smell in the skip in the alley behind Molly's building, however, he realized that he was about to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock poked the mysterious bag, nestled between a television that met its end after Tottenham's loss last Sunday and a bag of rubbish from someone's kitchen. Yes. That was definitely a human scent, and not a good human scent but death itself, lurking just under his nose. Sherlock shredded at the plastic bag with his paw, and the metallic smell of blood flooded his nostrils. It had to contain a body, or at least the evidence of one.

"Hey. This is my alley," a voice rumbled at him from the ground. Sherlock peeked over the edge to see a massive gray tomcat. Sherlock looked him over. He looked large and sluggish but if anything Sherlock had found such appearances could be deceiving among cats. Especially because this one wore no collar and appeared quite muscular.

"Just passing through," Sherlock replied cautiously. "I live two stories up, that window there."

"So what are you doing in my skip?" The other cat snarled in reply.

"Just – inspecting something odd." Sherlock tried to get deeper into the bag. "Won't be a minute." The larger cat was unimpressed with his excuse, and leapt into the skip, fluffed out and growling. Yes, appearances were definitely deceiving.

"Out. _Now_." Sherlock had to admit that despite the lack of a decent vocabulary, the tom was making his point rather well. He'd have to figure out a way to make the tom scarce before he could investigate further. Sherlock dashed back up the fire escape before anything untoward could happen.

On slipping into the kitchen window again, Sherlock realized that his timing that day had been poor indeed. Molly was in the kitchen, waiting with a frown on her face.

"I did think it odd that the window kept coming unlatched." She shivered a little. "Made me a bit nervous, actually." Sherlock ignored her and walked past, only to be grabbed up, his legs flailing.

"What is that horrid smell?" Molly asked, nose wrinkled most unattractively, and for a brief moment Sherlock had hope that she'd notice, that Molly of all people would know the tang of blood.

"The skip! I think someone's been murdered and dumped in the skip!" Sherlock tried to say, but of course only that yowling sound came out. Molly's eyes narrowed and she – _glared_. He didn't know Molly so much as possessed an expression that could be described as a glare. Perhaps she was getting it, understanding that the skip was a crime scene, that the police needed to be called at once...and then, all of Sherlock's hopes were dashed as instead of grabbing her mobile, she carried his struggling form into the bathroom.

Sherlock had imagined that there could be nothing more uncomfortable than bathing in front of Molly. But no. There was being bathed _by_ Molly, with cotton wadded in his ears. Afterwards, she wrapped him up in a warm towel and gave him a fish treat, despite the fact that her bathroom walls were wet from ceiling to floor.

"Much better," she said, as she rubbed him dry with the towel. "Can't have you smelling like old onions when John comes to visit tomorrow, can we?"

Sherlock froze. _John._ A common name, certainly, but he couldn't imagine Molly had that many male acquaintances and he knew she had no brothers. To a degree he had assumed that John was – he hadn't wanted to think about it, really. It hurt, and nothing helped when things hurt that way, not tipping over bottles of rancid-smelling lotion or shredding ugly blouses or coughing up a hairball in Molly's slippers.

He barely slept that night, the mystery of the skip temporarily forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4

Many thanks for the nice reviews, and to porpoise_song for the original prompt! Thought I'd try to get in a little more fluff before tonight...

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><p>Molly was on a cleaning frenzy the next morning, hoovering and dusting the flat into the picture of cozy orderliness. John was coming for lunch, apparently, which meant sandwiches, and apparently also that Sherlock had to risk death by vacuum cleaner. Not that he could even think about food when he considered it.<em> John.<em> Would he be different? Had he been injured? Would he recognize Sherlock, perhaps?

Molly had just collapsed gracelessly onto the sofa when the buzzer sounded. Molly let John into the building and Sherlock felt himself frozen in place, almost trembling with tension. He watched as Molly opened the door, the way she smiled and everything about her seemed to become lighter and less tired. John had that effect on people.

Then she looked down and made a noise, a strange little squeal of a sound that Sherlock was not sure she'd ever made in his presence. Even if Molly was happy to see John she generally tended to communicate with actual words or at least phonetically appropriate sounds. The whirling ball of puppy that shot into the room from the hallway answered that question. Sherlock was aghast. Who on earth would give John Watson a _puppy_?

John stepped into Molly's flat and Sherlock forgot to care about that question. The gestalt of John remained essentially unchanged. But Sherlock noticed that he had shaved for probably the first time this week to come and see Molly, that his hair was just a half inch longer than normal. He wasn't sleeping as well as he should, although Sherlock had seen worse shadows. Slight tremor in his hand. No sign of the limp in his walking at the moment but Sherlock noticed an unevenly worn tread on his shoes, which couldn't have been more than a few months old.

"This is Gladstone," John said, and Sherlock realized that he was explaining the yelping ball of hyperactivity to Molly. "My sister thought he might cheer me up a bit." Sherlock noticed that John smiled, but only halfway. He liked the dog well enough, yes, but that wasn't going to restore what John had lost.

"I can see why. What a sweet little thing," Molly cooed. Sherlock gagged while the sweet little thing wagged its stubby tail and jumped up to Molly. And then it noticed Sherlock, who backed into the couch.

"Be careful," Molly murmured. "Midnight's not like Toby. He's a bit – temperamental."

Sherlock sighed. He wished she understood that the shelter's silly moniker was not his name.

"Hiya, Midnight." said Gladstone, before politely rolling onto his back. This wasn't his flat, after all. Sherlock repeated the sigh.

"It's Sherlock, actually. But I haven't been able to correct anyone on that." Sherlock frowned. "I've tried, but I'm fairly certain that Molly will be rather disturbed if I scratch it out on something."

The pup hopped back up, apparently taking that as an invitation to be friends. "Probably, humans don't like it when we scratch things, John was so upset when I scraped up the kitchen door – wait, your name is Sherlock? John was friends with a Sherlock. His picture is in the flat."

A little pang of – something – seemed to hit Sherlock in the gut. "Oh," he simply replied, not knowing what else to say to that. Instead of trying to understand it, he decided to sniff Gladstone out. Standard bulldog, really. Hints of kibble and grass from the park, and the pup was well cared for. Sherlock would have expected nothing less from John. In essence, boring.

"Do try not to piddle on anything," Sherlock said stiffly, then yawned. Gladstone seemed to shrug, and then bounded back to John as he and Molly moved towards the kitchen. Molly made sandwiches and Sherlock crept closer to listen in on them.

"And how is Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked as she laid out pieces of bacon in the pan, and abruptly Sherlock wished that Mrs. Hudson had wanted a cat.

"Hip's acting up again, apparently, but otherwise well. She's visiting her sister this weekend. Says the new tenant has terrible taste in music. Mike said you saw an interesting tattoo this week?"

Molly laughed. "Yes, 75 year old woman, natural causes, thank goodness. But she had this fantastic dragon all wrapped around her torso."

Sherlock frowned as Molly prattled on about various intriguing and gory things she'd seen in the mortuary that week. New tenant? Why would Mrs. Hudson have a new tenant? Oh, 221C, obviously. Mrs. Hudson must have finally gotten the renovations done. And without Sherlock playing the violin at all hours and shooting things the space would have become far more palatable.

Molly finished the sandwiches as Gladstone sat at her feet, apparently hoping a piece of bacon would reach the floor. Sherlock could have told him that Molly was depressingly accurate in her aim while cooking. But Molly looked over briefly at John, before smiling and offering Gladstone a small piece of bacon, which Gladstone happily wolfed down.

Sherlock took advantage of the stillness while they ate to inspect John, winding around his legs with curiosity, trying to sniff out where he'd been spending his time. No hints of alcohol in his skin, but he'd worn these trousers to the surgery recently, Sherlock could detect the antiseptic smell. No female perfumes, so no girlfriend at the moment. There was another place, too, that Sherlock didn't recognize, not the warm woods and chemical scents of Baker Street (although Sherlock supposed that in his absence there really should be fewer chemicals involved). Then Molly peeked under the table and Sherlock fought the urge to bat at her ponytail.

"Funny. He seems to like you, John. Didn't think he liked anyone."

"Just call me Dr. Doolittle," John replied, and Molly laughed. Sherlock had no idea what that was all about. He had moved on to thinking about how to get John into the alley to inspect the skip. Surely John would recognize that the scent of decaying flesh above the rubbish...

And then the piece of bacon hit the floor. Instinctively, Sherlock lunged for it – he wasn't even hungry, but it was bacon and he never got to have that these days! Unfortunately, he had forgotten about Gladstone, who had been doing something rather less bright like chasing his own tail a moment ago. Sherlock skittered, claws on the kitchen tile to avoid a collision. Gladstone was not so graceful, however, and bowled Sherlock right over.

"Oh sorry! I'm so sorry!" Gladstone hopped off Sherlock. "It was an accident, really it was." He whimpered and Sherlock just stared.

"You're not that good at being a bulldog, are you?" Sherlock muttered.

"Mum was part pug, actually. Not that you could tell with me, the lady said," Gladstone replied. He delicately picked up the piece of bacon and bit off some, then nudged the rest with his nose towards Sherlock. "Here – Sherlock, right? We can share it."

Sherlock hesitantly nibbled at the bacon, and realized that Gladstone indeed seemed content to let him have it.

"You really are John Watson's dog," Sherlock said, and Gladstone just cocked his head with a confused look. Although perhaps that was just his face. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure.

The rest of lunch proceeded more peacefully, and then John and Molly got up to take Gladstone for a walk. Sherlock considered going out to intercept them and hopefully get John to have a look at the skip, but remembered two problems with that scenario – the big gray tom in the alley, and getting that very unpleasant bath last night. Sherlock could run into both again if he waited in the alley for them to return. He needed a better plan.

With a better plan, perhaps he could pay a visit to Mrs. Hudson, too? If he could get to Baker Street, if he could get John to return him to Molly, then he could get John to follow him into the alley. Although of course, this meant getting himself to Baker Street. That was going to take some doing, as it was much farther afield than any of Sherlock's wanderings had taken him so far.

He pondered the logistics for hours, well after Molly had returned from the park and scolded Sherlock for licking bacon fat out of the pan. Baker Street was too far to walk and get back before Molly got home. He didn't have any money and cabbies wouldn't pick up an unaccompanied cat, regardless. Finally, Sherlock succeeded in concocting a plan that involved slipping with a commuter into the tube and getting to Baker Street that way. Molly would have the day shift tomorrow, and as everyone hurried to work, surely no one would notice him sneaking about on the tube. It was brilliant, and Sherlock was terribly proud of himself for coming up with it. He happily yowled an explanation to Molly, who finally told him to stop making such a racket.

Sherlock's hopes were foiled the next morning when instead of trudging off to Bart's, Molly bundled him into a carrier and took him to the veterinarian. At whose hands he suffered a most unpleasant indignity.

"Not like I was planning to use those for their intended purpose," he grumbled. From her conversation with the vet, Molly seemed to think he might calm down a bit. He got very nice wet food when he was able to eat later that day, which almost made up for the absurd-looking cone on his head to keep him from fussing with the surgical glue. He couldn't go outside with it, and now the skip would be emptied, the evidence destroyed with no one knowing.

The medication Molly gave him in a treat made him sleepy, and while he wanted to stay awake and think about his next move, he drifted off into darkness as Molly slipped on her coat to leave for a night shift.

The next morning, Sherlock woke groggily when Molly opened the front door. Immediately he could tell something was wrong, her hands trembled and she was so very pale. He meowed and Molly quickly came over, scooping him up in her arms. Her heart thudded quickly beneath his paw.

"Thank goodness you couldn't sneak out last night," she murmured as she ran her hand over his back almost mindlessly. "That big gray fellow out back. They think some kind of dog got him. His throat was almost ripped out."

She held Sherlock like a baby and looked down at him. "You must be very careful out there, you see?" Then she sighed. "Of course you don't see. You're a cat." She crouched to put him down on the floor and Sherlock wobbled towards his water dish.

It seemed impossible. The tom was enormous and it was hard to imagine any animal being able to attack him so easily. Sherlock knew he was far cleverer than the average cat and he'd thought it unwise to try. He thought of the smell in the skip. Perhaps the tom had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyone who would murder a human and dump the body probably wouldn't think twice about getting rid of an annoying stray.

The only upside of the tom's death was that the alley was now unoccupied territory, and Sherlock could explore as he liked. Except he had this ridiculous Elizabethan collar around his neck.

Molly put on the kettle and leaned against the kitchen counter. "And with that rubbish strike starting up – it's amazing anyone even noticed him out there."

Sherlock looked up at Molly with hope. There was a strike on? A strike! So the rubbish wouldn't be collected, so whatever or whoever was dead in the skip would probably remain there until it was over. How absolutely brilliant.

"Are you ready to eat more? I'll get you something." Molly opened the cabinet. "Shrimp Surprise. I think you're eating better than I am this week." She put out the food and just this once, Sherlock granted her a bit of a purr.


	5. Chapter 5

Many thanks for the reviews and alerts! I appreciate it!

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><p>Today was the day, Sherlock decided. The collar was off, the garbage strike was still on, and most importantly, Molly was out getting her hair cut. Sherlock didn't see why she bothered, she could have done it herself for the same effect without spending 30 quid.<p>

Sherlock cautiously nudged his way through the window and down the fire escape to the alley. The stench from the garbage strike overpowered more or less everything in the alley, and Sherlock had to admit that if he hadn't known what was in the skip he could never have detected it. He began digging into the piles of trash, shakily noting that any of the bags could cave in and bury him. It was fairly disgusting at this point, too, as Sherlock through used tissues, the rotting remnants of meals, and several things he would have preferred to pretend weren't in the skip. He really didn't need to know that about the couple in 3B, thank you very much.

Finally, after digging through three bags of rubbish, the stench of rotting flesh stung his nostrils. At this point it was nearly overwhelming, and Sherlock thought he might have to crawl out for air. But he needed his proof, the evidence that would finally bring the Met to inspect the skip and the alley and find whoever this was...surely there was plenty of evidence for that to happen now. He brushed aside the plastic to reveal a dead hand, which appeared to be male in nature, dirt under the fingernails and dried blood all around.

Sherlock paused to consider the logistics of the situation. He didn't have tools – for that matter, he didn't have thumbs. He couldn't get the whole hand out of the skip and up the fire escape, it was too big and he was still a rather small cat. The thought of what he was going to have to do was unpleasant, especially with such a finely developed sense of smell and taste, but he was going to have to do it. Wincing slightly to himself, he sank his teeth into the flesh and tried not to gag. He gnawed, tearing at skin and veins and ligaments until finally, the finger was mostly separated. One final snap of his teeth and it separated from the rest of the hand with a sickening tearing sound.

With that, Sherlock dragged himself and his prize to the top of the skip. In the light the finger looked scarcely different from those he would have cadged from Molly in the past, except that instead of clean, surgically cut edges at the end, the skin was gnawed and ripped. Whoever the finger had belonged to, they must have been anxious – the nails were bitten down to the quick and there were hangnails, equally well-chewed. Sherlock tried not to think about the bacteria that they must have been hosting at this point. He picked up the finger in his mouth, and made his way up the fire escape.

The task had taken longer than he hoped, and Molly was in the kitchen again when he returned. As predicted, her hair looked exactly the same.

"You were crawling around in the rubbish again, weren't you?" she said, wrinkling her nose as she poured herself a cup of tea. "I need to get a new latch for that window, one you can't open."

Sherlock dropped the finger on the floor beside her and meowed in what he hoped was a suitably pathetic manner. If he yowled, she would just ignore him. Molly turned to him, looked down, and then her eyes got very, very big.

"My God – where did you find that?" she shrieked, turning even paler than usual.

Really, you'd think she'd be used to that sort of thing. Molly clearly wasn't in the habit of bringing home her own experiments, though, and a human finger out of the appropriate workplace context was apparently rather jarring for her. She was on the phone to the police in moments, awkwardly explaining that her cat had brought home a human finger and dropped it on the kitchen floor. Yes, she was a pathologist, she knew very well what a detached human finger looked like and could they please send someone to deal with it _now_?

Sherlock experienced a strange mix of smugness and nostalgia when Lestrade arrived on the scene around an hour later, following the officers who were dispatched to make sure Molly was not merely hysterical. By then the rest of the body had been discovered in the skip, a male but that was all anyone would guarantee until a thorough autopsy. As Lestrade gently questioned Molly, however, Sherlock found himself growing ever more irritable, because could not participate in the investigation as he would have before. Lestrade wasn't asking the right questions at all – no one had gone missing in Molly's block of flats, rents were due last week and someone would have noticed. He meowed and tried to climb into Molly's lap but she pushed him away.

Right. Smelling like the skip was not something of which Molly approved. And she was probably going to give him another bath later.

"How do these things keep happening?" Molly asked Lestrade tiredly.

The detective shrugged. "Just luck, I suppose. And I suppose – his nature to be curious despite the obvious risk?"

Molly smiled slightly. "Sounds familiar," she said quietly, and the twinkle in Lestrade's eyes died just a little. Sherlock had a suspicion that they weren't really talking about clichéd feline sayings anymore. Also that they were surprisingly still affected by a loss that Sherlock would have thought they'd have nearly forgotten by now.

Sherlock yowled to get them back on track, and Lestrade looked over at him, surprised.

"Oh, is your dinner late then? It's your own fault, you know," Molly chided him. "I'd better get him fed, though, God only knows what he'll rip up if I don't. Last time it was one of my favorite blouses. I don't even know how he got it out of the closet."

Sheer determination, thought Sherlock, based on the belief that those colors should never have been united in a single tartan pattern.

"You said he was poking around in that skip before, yeah?"

"Last week. It was disgusting then, and that was before the strike," Molly replied, then frowned. "You know, from the looks of that finger – the poor bloke must have been killed right before the strike started."

"And if not for the strike, it would have been just taken away. I doubt anyone would have noticed afterwards either, with all the rubbish piled up all over the place." Lestrade looked down at Sherlock, seeming just slightly impressed. "Good detective work, you."

Sherlock wished he could roll his eyes, because of course it was good detective work. He settled for a meow of satisfaction.

"Call me if anything out of the ordinary comes up, Molly – anything at all." Lestrade handed her a card. "We don't have any reason to think this is anything – atypical for a murder. Or that the killer's even in the area anymore. But just – "

"I know. Be careful. Eyes and ears open." Molly took a deep breath. "Want a cuppa, before you go?"

"No, thanks, already hit my caffeine limit today," Lestrade replied. "Better deal with his Majesty here before you lose some upholstery." Molly laughed at that and went off to the kitchen.

Once she was out of sight, Lestrade bent down to scratch his ears and smiled warmly. "Keep an eye on the flat. Anybody tries to mess with Dr. Hooper, you give 'em a good swipe with those claws. And stay out of trouble."

Sherlock wriggled away, not best pleased with either the ear scratching or the DI's words. He hadn't considered that revealing what he found in the skip to Molly he had potentially brought her to the attention of a murderer, especially if the murderer thought Molly knew the body was in the skip for any reason other than that her cat couldn't keep his nose out of the rubbish. He might have potentially exposed Molly to danger again, via little more than his own proximity to it.

In the kitchen, Molly refilled his water and put out food, muttering about how organic cat food was not worth the money for a cat who rolled around in rubbish. Sherlock bumped against her ankle with his nose, and decided then and there, he had to help Lestrade find the killer, he had to protect Molly.

And he had no idea how he was going to manage that at all.


	6. Chapter 6

Continued thanks for your reviews and favorites! They absolutely make my day. Porpoise_song gave me one of the ideas I used in this chapter. Thanks again!

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><p>Apparently John Watson was the person Molly thought to call when her life had taken a distinct turn for the macabre again. A logical choice, Sherlock thought, John had a gun, although he did not appear to be carrying it on his person. However, he was full of concern for Molly and when she had poured out every word of the story about the skip, he listened to all her other tales of Sherlock's misbehavior. John also brought along Gladstone, who jumped excitedly around Molly's feet and tried to lick her face when she crouched down to pet him.<p>

How obsequious. But two could play at that game, and Sherlock engaged by jumping into John's lap, half-standing with his paws on John's chest, examining him closely. Not as tired as the last time he'd come around, slightly higher quality of clothing. He was making more of an effort – new girlfriend, perhaps. He also discerned that indeed, John did not have his gun, and really, what good was that supposed to do? John was rather taken aback by this but gamely stroked his back, and Sherlock curled up with a purr.

"He almost never does that," Molly said, suddenly beaming. "He must really like you, John." Really, Sherlock found it pathetic that so little could make her happy. Her standards for cat ownership were remarkably low. Although considering his targeted destruction of her possessions and his abject failure to reduce the mouse population in the alley, that was probably for the best.

Sherlock found himself and Gladstone banished to the kitchen while John and Molly ate pizza, and out of curiosity, asked Gladstone why, exactly, he was always so pleased to see Molly.

Gladstone looked up from the rawhide bone he was chewing. "She's quite lovely, actually. She plays tug of war and she gives me treats. The one who comes over to see John – she told him I was adorable but when he's not in the room she won't play with me, and she told me my paws were grubby. Plus I can't sleep in the bedroom when she's there."

Sherlock blinked and remembered that Gladstone was, in fact, basically a small child. "Trust me, you don't want to sleep in the bedroom while she's there. And your paws are indeed grubby."

"But you see? Molly doesn't care. And neither does John. That woman, she'd probably want – white carpets, or something."

"A ghastly thought," Sherlock said. "Don't worry. John's terrible at dating. She'll be gone soon enough."

Gladstone tilted his head. "How do you know that?"

"Long story," Sherlock said. He yawned and stretched, the urge for a long nap was tugging at him but he hated to give up the opportunity. "Are they going to take you for a walk later?"

Gladstone paused to scratch behind his ear. "Depends on if we stay long enough. John and I walked over here. His funny leg's a bit better and it's sunny outside."

Sherlock eyed him. "Any chance you could make it so that they take you for a walk?"

Gladstone stared blankly at him for a moment, then smiled a very doggie smile. "You want to go look in the alley where they found the body. John said you were very, um..."

"Curious?"

"Yes!" Gladstone yelped and wagged his stubby tail. "Can I help? I'm good at smelling things."

Sherlock frowned. Gladstone's eagerness boded well for the future, but again, he was just a pup. "I'm sure you are. But it's not a good idea."

Could a puppy's face fall? Sherlock was fairly certain Gladstone's did.

"It would be enormously helpful if you could get them outside, though," Sherlock offered. "Molly does watch that window quite fervently."

Gladstone seemed to forget his disappointment quickly. Once the kitchen door opened, he tugged at John's pant leg and they were off for a walk, leaving Sherlock to clamber down to the alley again.

Sherlock didn't like to think of how Anderson and company must have ruined the forensic evidence left in the alley. The strike had finally ended and once the crime scene tape was down, the skip was emptied. Sherlock knew from Molly's conversation with Lestrade that no clothing or murder weapon had been found. Perhaps he could detect something that humans couldn't? He skulked carefully along the walls of the buildings, but if any of the scent of decay had remained, it had dissipated in yesterday's rain. As he neared the back of the kebab house, he noted something. Not the fresh scent of death he had found in the skip but something so very close to it, lingering somewhere in the area. Sherlock circled around the kebab house's bins but they didn't seem to be the source. Gristly bits of shwarma and burned falafel, napkins and straws and old grease, boring. He caught the scent again but felt it fade away quickly. Something to do with the breeze, perhaps. It was definitely nearby, somewhere out of his view, and the alley had limited places for even death to hide.

Just then, one of the alley mice skittered across the sidewalk in front of him. Sherlock saw his chance and crouched, waiting as the mouse looked for the remnants of crumbled pita from the kebab house. He reared up, the mouse perfectly in his sights and pounced, the thrill of the chase surging through his veins.

To his utter surprise, when he looked down, the mouse was indeed between his paws, whiskers quivering and scrabbling for escape. It seemed absurdly small, and not even worth it as a snack. Worst of all, the comparison was most unflattering, but he thought it reminded him ever so slightly of Molly at her most timid.

Sherlock harrumphed to himself and sat back on his paws. Perhaps he simply needed to know that he could catch one if necessary? The idea of consuming a mouse was rather unappetizing, after all, considering what the mouse had been eating.

"You're – you're letting me go?" It squeaked nervously.

"Yes. If you hurry up and leave. And keep your kin out of that flat with the yellow curtains." Sherlock nodded towards Molly's window.

"Why that's – oh thank you, thank you -" The little mouse paused. "This alley just gets stranger and stranger."

"Stranger? Why?" Sherlock wrapped his tail around his feet and stared at the little mouse, who now turned a bit of old cucumber over and over in his paws.

"There was a human back here the other day. Not one of the humans with the funny suits who pulled the dead one out of the skip, or the ones who put out the foodstuffs in the bins." The mouse paused and nibbled at his prize before speaking again. "He looked in the skip and cursed, then he climbed on those crates and put something behind the big noisy air thing."

Sherlock looked at the spot where the mouse's gaze fell. There was an exhaust system for the restaurant's kitchen that seemed to be working only sporadically, with hot, garlic and oil scented air belching out every few minutes. It was impossible to see the other side from where Sherlock stood.

"Thank you. You can go now," Sherlock said, dismissing the mouse. He leapt atop the crates and tried to see what was behind the metal vent. He still wasn't quite tall enough, but he could see the end of something crumpled and dark stuffed between the wide exhaust pipe and the wall. Carefully, Sherlock leapt to the roof and examined it. Fabric, perhaps clothing, rolled up into a ball. Experimentally, he gave it a tug, and the bundle half-unraveled, causing a pair of dark, splotchy-looking jeans to dangle over the roof's edge, hanging above the crates in the alley.

The splotches smelled like blood. This had to be evidence, dropped here after the police had finished with the crime scene because even Anderson couldn't have missed something that large and obvious. Besides, the mouse had said it was after those people had gone through the area. Sherlock edged closer to what might have been a jumper, stuck in the space, just a few more inches...

And then he was suddenly barreling end over end across the kebab shop's angled roof, tumbling down onto the crates himself with a cry. A streak of black and white was on him almost instantly, and Sherlock screeched against the sharp pain of teeth trying to sink into his throat. He dragged his claws over the attacker's belly and rolled towards the ground, throwing his enemy to the sidewalk. Sherlock leapt to his feet, feeling all of his fur explode from end to end as he hissed and arched his back, trying to look as large as possible. The other cat snarled menacingly in return, all black save for a streak of white across his chest and a splash of blood where Sherlock's claws had slashed him. They locked eyes across the alley, and instantly, Sherlock knew his enemy, his impossible enemy. He had looked into that darkness only once before, he wouldn't make the same mistake this time.

"Moriarty," he growled, just before leaping at this new version of the monster, claws extended and teeth bared.


	7. Chapter 7

Many thanks for the favorites and reviews! I'm sorry my updates aren't more frequent - school has been keeping me very busy. Knowing people are enjoying it has reminded me that I need to keep going with this, too.

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><p>Sherlock and Moriarty tumbled over and over, until they slammed into the skip and Moriarty leapt away hissing.<p>

"Fancy meeting you here, Sherlock." Moriarty circled like a wolf as Sherlock arched his back, prepared to attack again.

"I doubt this is pure coincidence," Sherlock growled. "What are you doing here?"

"New manservant has some very bad habits," Moriarty's teeth gleamed white in the shadows. "Like leaving evidence behind. You just can't get decent help these days."

"The clothes," Sherlock replied, coolly matching Moriarty's circles like they were dancing a strange tango. "I can't believe the killer really planned to leave them there."

"He's not that idiotic. After all, he can return to the scene of the crime. The police won't." Moriarty glared. "He's just a bit – delayed. Job out of the country."

"They'll come back if they have a reason." Sherlock snarled. "If those clothes are what I think they are –"

Moriarty cast a mocking look of sympathy towards him. "Perhaps you haven't noticed, Sherlock dear – but we're _cats_. The police are notably lacking in attention to us."

"I already showed them that this murder happened. I'm sure I can get their attention again."

"Indeed you did." Moriarty stepped forward with a sneer. "And how is little Molly? Still wearing the worst blouses in England?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Is Molly in danger?"

Moriarty laughed, as much as a cat could actually laugh. "Please. Molly couldn't solve a murder if the weapon was dangling in front of her nose. But mind your own business, Sherlock, or it won't stay that way."

Sherlock bristled further. "She has nothing to do with this."

Moriarty smiled toothily at him. "_I'm_ not going to bother her, Sherlock. But do you really think any human's going to believe a cat solving a murder?"

Sherlock snarled and leapt at Moriarty, sinking his teeth into his enemy's shoulder. He felt the swipe of Moriarty's claws against his cheek as they rolled into the skip with a thud. Moriarty yowled in pain and they broke apart again. Sherlock circled Moriarty, tail snapping as he watched Moriarty do the same. Moriarty made a run at him this time, biting his cheek and clawing at his neck. Sherlock slashed back with his claws, but with a jerk, Moriarty slammed him into the skip. Sherlock yelped with pain and tried to roll back onto his feet, but he was dazed and Moriarty seized on the opportunity to pounce on him, howling and ready to tear his throat out.

All at once it occurred to Sherlock exactly what had happened to the big gray tom who had previously owned the alley.

Sherlock slashed across Moriarty's shoulder with one paw, sending him rolling away, but it was only a stopgap measure. He struggled to get to his feet when he saw Moriarty whipping his tail, warming up for another attack. Sherlock tried to anticipate the next hit, but regardless of where Moriarty chose to strike, he was definitely in trouble. His back left paw was injured to the point where putting weight on it sent a flash of pain through his system, and he knew he was bleeding from at least one of the bites Moriarty had inflicted.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard a slightly squeaky growl behind him, and Moriarty was bowled over in a blur of yellow fur and trailing leash. Gladstone was small, but he already outweighed Moriarty by several pounds, and the velocity alone sent Sherlock's enemy sprawling into the kebab house's bins. Moriarty leapt up and away, hissing and spitting at both of them.

"I'll be back, Sherlock. Don't you worry. I won't let you get bored anytime soon - you or your little pet." With that Moriarty dashed away, leaving Gladstone barking and hopping at him fiercely on the ground.

"Gladstone!" John called, and came hurrying down the alley. "What are you on about now, you never run off like that – " He stopped when he saw Sherlock limping and hissing and gestured toward the street, Sherlock assumed for Molly.

"Sorry, sorry," Gladstone whimpered to John, but he hurried over to Sherlock. "Are you okay, Sherlock?"

"I am –" Sherlock paused, unsure of just what to say. "That was – that was quite brave, Gladstone. He's a very dangerous cat."

"I had to help," Gladstone said firmly. "It wasn't fair –you were hurt."

Meanwhile, Molly had come rushing down the alley behind John. "Midnight! I can't believe this, you getting into a fight!" Very gingerly, she picked him up and cradled him close. Sherlock sagged against her, too exhausted to so much as wriggle as the adrenaline quickly faded from his system.

Molly looked down at him and frowned. "Toby never gave me these problems. And for heaven's sake, I had you neutered."

"I noticed, thanks," Sherlock replied grumblingly, "And maybe I could have won if you hadn't."

"Hope he gave as good as he got. Those are some awful-looking scratches," John said, having gathered up Gladstone's leash again. Gladstone tugged on the leash and barked at the clothes Sherlock had been trying to inspect before Moriarty attacked him. Oh, _good dog_ indeed.

"What's that?" John peered at the jeans and the torn jumper and frowned. "Molly, does this look like blood to you?"

Molly's fingers, which had been gently stroking Sherlock's head, suddenly stilled. "It does. Quite a lot of blood, and several days old, at least. What are those clothes doing stuffed up there?"

"I think we'd best call Lestrade," John said, before turning to look at Molly. "And I don't know if it's safe for you to be here. Whoever the murderer is, it looks like they think this alley's an excellent dumping ground."


	8. Chapter 8

Hello, everyone! Thanks so much for the continued reviews, alerts, and favorites! Knowing that people are reading has really helped me keep going. I've been getting ready for my dissertation so school has been incredibly busy, which has reduced my writing time to a minimum...hence the ridiculously long time between updates. I did my best to give you an extra long chapter this time - enjoy!

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><p>An hour later, the alley behind Molly's flat was swarming with a forensics team for the second time in a fortnight. Lestrade joined Molly and John in her kitchen, pacing the small room a bit while they sat at the table. Molly had made tea for the three of them, and given Gladstone a treat from the bag she had bought and hidden away in the cabinet.<p>

No one was swabbing Sherlock for DNA evidence, although clearly there was a link between Moriarty and the bloody clothing stuffed behind the vent. Unfortunately he didn't know how to share that information – and regardless Moriarty certainly hadn't been the one to actually hide the clothes.

Lestrade sipped his tea and glanced at his notes. "So the clothes were just – resting there? Seems odd. If they're connected to the body, the killer must have been interrupted. Otherwise why leave them in such an obvious place?"

A reasonable deduction, Sherlock concluded. Moriarty had implied as much, but of course that was not something Sherlock was able to share.

"What do you know about the victim so far?" John asked, looking up from his tea. Lestrade looked like he was considering whether or not to answer the question for a moment, which Sherlock supposed was the result of John no longer being attached at the hip to a consulting detective.

"Cause of death was stabbing, but the killer tried to strangle him first. Looks like he tried to get away, there were defensive wounds on his hands. Apparently he was making money from several illegal gambling rings. Tons of unsavory connections, but no one seems to know who actually wanted him dead."

"Not exactly a local, then," Molly said cheerily, then awkwardly looked at her tea when neither John nor Lestrade actually laughed.

"He isn't, actually," Lestrade finally said. "He's from Aberdeen, took the train down to London to conduct some business. That was three weeks ago."

Molly looked horrified. "That's awful. All that time his family had no idea."

"Family," Lestrade scoffed. "More like a bunch of thugs."

"He wasn't killed in the alley, though," John said. "Only dumped there."

"As far as we can tell. There was no evidence to suggest he was killed in the alley, no blood anywhere outside the bag in the skip." Lestrade looked at Molly. "And since we don't know where he was killed...is there anyone you can stay with for a few days, Molly?"

"What? This block of flats is full of people," Molly replied. "It's perfectly safe. I'm not leaving."

The inspector frowned. "The murderer could be one of your neighbors, Molly. And they're going to notice our coming and going. They might think you've seen more than you have."

"All my neighbors know is that my cat dragged a finger out of the skip. I don't know how they found out, but believe me, they give Midnight a wide berth. I hardly think I have anything to worry about." Sherlock winced as Molly cleaned the scratches on his neck. He had the dreadful feeling that there was another trip to the vet in his future.

John folded his arms and frowned. "Molly, someone's been around at least once to dump evidence – even after the police came. Chances are they're nearby – who would go across town for that? You could come and stay with me. For a few days, at least. Until we know it's safe."

"That's very kind, John, but I really don't think it's necessary – "

She stopped when Lestrade abruptly banged his tea mug down, then leaned tiredly against her kitchen counter. Small coffee stain near his belt, slightly red eyes. Tired, Sherlock thought. Lestrade probably had a docket of unsolved cases and it was making him snappish.

"You and John found the clothes in the alley on your own," Lestrade said, rather sharply. Sherlock snarled at that, but Molly thought it was just an objection to her first aid efforts and gently stroked his back. "If word got around about the cat, word can easily get around about that."

"It was only a matter of time before someone found those clothes. We hardly did anything special," Molly replied, sounding a bit huffy. She scooped Sherlock up, holding him closer, and the defiance in her voice confused him all the more. He could feel her tension in the slight tremor of her hands, the quickened rate of her heartbeat beneath his ear. Molly was afraid, he could practically smell it through fabric softener and soap. So why would she stay, instead of going somewhere else?

She wanted to be brave, Sherlock supposed, to take care of herself. But being brave wouldn't be enough if someone suspected that Molly really knew something.

John took a deep breath. "We just want you to be safe, Molly. I know it sounds like we're overreacting. But – I've already lost too many friends. If anything happened to you..." John didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to, really, Molly was no genius but she was far too bright not to come up with five different ways to end that thought and none of them were good. Oh, that was_ clever_, John.

But not just clever, Sherlock realized, judging by the real worry on John's face, the real sadness that he had apparently been keeping wrapped away. He was even more surprised when John reached out and petted his head gently. His hand was warm and dry and Sherlock purred before he could stop himself.

"All right," Molly said, and she cradled Sherlock a little more tightly. "Better safe than sorry, I suppose." She handed Sherlock over to John, to his surprise, and when John took him some part of him relaxed instinctively, immediately calmer with John surrounding him, scent and strong arms and heartbeat.

"We'll get you home as soon as we can, Molly." Lestrade declared firmly, and headed for the door. "Speaking of which, I'll get back down there to see what they've found. I'll let you know when we hear anything."

Molly nodded. "All right. Yes. Thank you, Greg." She saw Lestrade out and slumped against the door a little, looking somehow both distressed and just the slightest bit – energized by everything.

"So. I'll just – pack a few things, shall I?" Molly smiled at John, and Sherlock wasn't sure he exactly liked the way John's heart rate increased ever so slightly. The former rhythm was much more pleasant and calm.

"Of course. And we'll go. To a nice, murder-free flat."

Molly laughed, and then her smile turned ever so slightly wicked. "His carrier's in the corner there, John. Good luck."

John watched Molly disappear into her bedroom and then eyed Sherlock sternly. "All right, you. I know you don't like these trips, but it won't be for too long. They won't let you in a cab any other way."

Sherlock meowed grouchily in reply and made a few half-hearted squirms for the sake of appearance. "Last time she put me in here I came back minus a few things," he complained. "You can hardly blame me for being suspicious."

Gently, John stroked his fur, carefully avoiding the sore spots from the fight. Sherlock knew it was a trick, damn it, but he started to realize how tired he was from the fighting and his general lack of a nap, and felt his eyes slowly droop. He was just about asleep when John placed him in the carrier and shut the door. Gladstone ambled over to peer inside.

"Don't worry. We don't live far from here," he said with a yip.

"I'm not worried," Sherlock snarled.

"You're upset, though - your tail is puffed out again," Gladstone said, and Sherlock peered around to realize that it was true.

"I – dislike the carrier." He eyed Gladstone, who wagged his tail with interest. "I stayed in a cage for months at the shelter. It was...unpleasant."

"Molly rescued you," Gladstone said cheerily.

"Well she – I mean, I could have, if I wanted – " Sherlock shrank back into the carrier, curling his tail around himself with a sigh. "Yes. She did."

Molly had rescued him, and he'd brought her murder and gore, and not in a way she found particularly fun. Still, he thought as Molly picked up his carrier, a little time in Baker Street would do them both good. Perhaps, given enough time to think, he could deduce some things about the murder...Sherlock slid into the side of the carrier and yowled when Molly jolted suddenly.

"Oh, that's disgusting – where did that come from? Midnight doesn't hunt at all." Sherlock peered through the door of the carrier and froze, his mouth suddenly dry. On the welcome mat to Molly's flat was the torn up corpse of a mouse. Not even properly eaten, just ripped to bits.

The very mouse, Sherlock realized, who had directed him to the blood-stained clothing in the alley. It was a good thing that they weren't staying at the flat, because this was a warning, clear as day – and Molly wasn't the intended recipient.

Outside Molly's building, John hailed a cab, and despite the circumstances Sherlock had to admit that he was looking forward to seeing 221B. It would be lovely to see Mrs. Hudson again. He wondered what her policy was on cats. He was already rather surprised that she had allowed Gladstone, but perhaps she hadn't wanted to deny anything that might help John with his grief.

Consequently, Sherlock was horrified when he realized that Molly was carrying him up the wrong flight of stairs, and taking him into a flat that couldn't have been less like the home he'd left behind.

"Welcome!" Gladstone said, hopping about as Molly freed him from the carrier. Sherlock stalked around the room, inspecting the place, finding it completely clean – not awful, just – painfully _mediocre_. Simple and boring and uncluttered, except for Gladstone's toys here and there.

"This is very nice, John. Lots of light," Molly said pleasantly, as John showed her the kitchen. Sherlock, in the meantime, crawled under the couch and flopped onto his side, despondent. He never wanted this for John. He supposed, though, that John couldn't have afforded Baker Street on his own, and finding another flatmate would have been difficult.

"Just too much to stay in the flat after – " Sherlock heard John saying, and his voice seemed to break ever so slightly when he could not finish. _Oh._ Sherlock wondered if he would have felt the same way, or if he would have simply burrowed further into Baker Street, refusing to give it up.

"I can imagine – that is to say, I can't really, I guess, but it would be – " Molly paused, and took a breath. "It must have been awful," she finally stated, and gently laid her hand on John's arm. She squeezed gently, her gaze a little shy, then moved away to unpack the carrier bag of cat paraphernalia she had brought along. Sherlock noticed John's eyes following her for a moment, before he turned to put on the kettle. It was strange, really. He didn't think John and Molly had ever said more than a few words to each other when he was alive. He wondered when, exactly, things had changed so drastically.

Meanwhile, Gladstone waddled over and peered under the couch at Sherlock. He offered Sherlock a rawhide bone, and proceeded to gnaw on it when Sherlock refused.

"Is _she_ going to sleep in John's bed now?" The pup asked.

Sherlock snorted. "Oh, certainly not. The white carpet woman has moved on, I take it?"

"Er, yes. I may have had something to do with that. I chewed on one of her shoes." Gladstone looked quite sheepish, but Sherlock grinned mischievously.

"I would never have believed you had the nerve, Gladstone. Excellent work." If dogs could blush, Sherlock thought Gladstone might have done so. Instead he shyly returned to his bone, watching Molly unpack cat food and toys.

The rest of the evening passed in a relatively quiet manner. John and Molly ate Indian takeaway (mildly spiced, John slipped both Sherlock and Gladstone a bit of lamb) and watched what was no doubt a terrible movie, but Sherlock was too busy considering evidence to pay attention. He considered what he knew: Moriarty was a cat as well. His new owner was clearly a killer, one who, it seemed, traveled for work. He had been back to the alley behind Molly's flat at least twice, but the victim had been from a different city entirely. He hadn't been a small man, so it seemed likely that wherever he was killed must have been nearby. There were no particular attractions in Molly's neighborhood. Whatever brought the victim there must have been quite specific. Invited, perhaps, by the murderer?

Molly's giggling abruptly shattered Sherlock's concentration. He sniffed the air. Riesling. When had that happened?

"Oh, I was awful. I couldn't remember your name! And it's John, for heaven's sake!" Sherlock winced at Molly's voice, which he found a bit shrill, but he noticed that John didn't seem to mind.

"I think I've recovered," John replied with a quick grin. He started inflating an air mattress, and Sherlock couldn't hear what he was saying over the horrid noise of the fan. He yowled in protest and bolted to the kitchen. The air mattress was even worse than the sound of Molly hoovering the flat. After a few minutes the sound ceased and Sherlock poked his head out of the kitchen. Gladstone looked equally aggrieved in the corner, he noticed, burrowed into his bed.

"Sorry there, Midnight. Bit loud, I'm sure," John said, opening an old linen press to pull out sheets and a blanket.

"Poor thing. He really hates noises like that," Molly cooed sympathetically, "The first time I turned on the hoover he practically climbed the curtains." Sherlock glared at her. He didn't go around pointing out that she conducted autopsies for a living but still screamed at the sight of spiders...although he supposed he would have if he could actually talk.

"There. Little better than camping, but probably not much," John said affably, as he spread a blanket over the li-lo.

"It's fine, John - more than fine," Molly said, "Although I still feel like all of this is really unnecessary."

"Even if it is, it's nice to have the company."

"As if you've ever been lacking for company, John," Molly teased, and Sherlock wondered why she continued to try to be funny.

"Different kind of company then," John said, then blanched slightly. "That is to say – not that you're, um."

"I know what you meant," Molly said, laughing. She swept up their glasses and took them to the kitchen, smiling at John as she went.

Oh, God. Was she flirting with John Watson? Sherlock thought he might be sick, and for once it would be entirely unrelated to that disgusting hairball situation.

A short while later moonlight shone into John's small sitting room, and everyone had settled into their respective beds. Sherlock watched Molly, curled up in the dark and trying to fall asleep. She shifted from side to side, clearly drowsy but not quite tipping over into sleep. He sighed, supposing that this was part of his duties as her cat, and besides, it was his fault she wasn't at home in her own bed. He leapt onto the li-lo, to Molly's small noise of surprise, and settled in at her side, enjoying the way her hand fell just so along his back.

"Don't worry. We'll be home again soon," she said softly, her fingers nestled into his fur. Sherlock didn't think it was for his benefit. He curled into her side, and listened as she sighed and drifted off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

I know, I know - it's been a terribly long time since I updated! Hopefully the next update will not be *quite* so slow. Thank you for the new reviews and follows! They are very much appreciated.

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><p>For the next few days, Sherlock awaited a break in the case. Or perhaps a new interesting murder. At the very least, new catnip. But nothing appeared on the horizon to break his boredom once he had analyzed the contents of John's new flat, none of which were terribly interesting. Boring job at a surgery, a few dull girlfriends, and a clearly ill thought out attempt to learn to make his own sushi were the only deductions Sherlock could make about John's life now. An overly cheerful young woman came to walk Gladstone in the afternoon, and he would come back after chatting with the other dogs on her route. John and Molly arrived home in the early evening, made dinner or brought home takeaway, and chattered inanely about their jobs. They watched crap telly (not even the <em>good<em> sort of crap telly) and Sherlock noticed that Molly carefully avoided the dull mystery programmes she often enjoyed in the evening.

The fourth day, Molly switched shifts with another pathologist, leaving Sherlock alone with John and Gladstone in the evening. To his surprise, Lestrade paid John a visit that night. He looked particularly less silver than gray, but took a moment to scratch Sherlock's ears while Sherlock inspected the hem of his trousers.

John opened two beers and the two men sat at the small dining table. Lestrade's face was bound up in concern, and he seemed to be hesitating about something that he wanted to say.

"You're going to think I'm daft," Lestrade began after a moment, "But is there any way – any way at all – that you think Molly Hooper could be involved in this murder?"

"What?" John almost spat out a mouthful of beer and looked at Lestrade incredulously. "How could you even think that, Greg? I mean, really. Molly! Involved in a murder."

"I know it sounds absurd," Lestrade sighed. "But we've got almost nothing to go on. No one else saw or heard anything from that alley – no one but her cat, apparently. And if it was anyone else, we'd find it suspicious that her cat ran across the body and the evidence separately."

"Fine, but – seriously, this is Molly we're talking about here. There's no connection between her and that bloke, and how could she have even lifted him into the skip? He was twice her size."

"True enough." Lestrade frowned and scrubbed his hand in his hair, making stand up even further on end. "God, I sound ridiculous, don't I? This case just has us in knots. The crime scene isn't really the crime scene, and the mess from the skip has made it almost impossible to figure out where that might be."

"Of course, Sherlock – " John began, but then stopped, closing his eyes as if he was wincing. "Well, never mind all that."

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. "He'd have had this figured out in a trice, yeah?"

"No doubt. And Molly's gratitude paid in – intestines or something for the rest of my days."

Sherlock sniffed. Intestines, certainly not. For fixing something like this he would have had entire _limbs_ filling the fridge.

"I know Molly's not the sort to be around rough types, but - " Sherlock knew what Lestrade was referring to without finishing the sentence. _Jim from IT_ indeed, but it seemed clear to Sherlock that Molly hadn't any inkling of what Moriarty was playing at, and now that he thought about it there had been no indication of any further callers sniffing around Molly's front door.

"I think we can trust that was a one-off," John said wryly, and they both fell into a slightly awkward silence again. Gladstone yipped at John, possibly in hopes of an errant crisp making its way to him. Lestrade smiled down at the pup, who wagged his tail hopefully. Sherlock rolled his eyes and congratulated himself on being born a less subservient creature.

"How's he getting along with Molly's little mouser there?"

"Oh, fine, fine. They're mates now."

"We are not _mates_," Sherlock grumbled. As conversation drifted to rugby or some other mundane subject, Sherlock wove his way over to where Lestrade's coat was draped over the back of the sofa. With ease he sank his teeth into the notebook in Lestrade's pocket and dragged it out, taking it into John's bedroom to read in peace, leaving only slight puncture marks with his claws as he turned the page.

The man in the alley had most recently hailed from Aberdeen. His connections were indeed unpleasant, hardly at Moriarty's level, but the sort of work where he'd make more than a few enemies. Sherlock frowned at one word amidst the information Lestrade had scribbled down – Murthwaite. He knew that name, but he didn't know why.

Sherlock frowned and sank his claws into the word, trying to recall where he had first encountered the name. Molly came to mind, but he had no idea if the connection was genuine, or if it was merely an artifact of the closeness of the case to her. Then he remembered, in a rush of images – a body with mysterious algae on the clothes, only found in a certain area of Cumbria. Molly had spoken of a place where she and her family had spent holidays when she was very young, a place called Murthwaite. Something else as well, but Sherlock remembered the algae he had been looking at more vividly than Molly's inane background chatter.

Squinting at Lestrade's writing, Sherlock finally made out what the rest of the sentence stated. The man in the alley had some business dealings there as well, but more critically, a son who remained there, and who was presently missing after skipping work for the past two weeks. Sherlock attempted to flick the notebook closed and dragged it back, dropping it on the floor beside Lestrade's coat when he found that putting it back was far more challenging than borrowing it in the first place.

He noticed Lestrade getting to his feet. Finally! He'd calculated his chances and this was the perfect opportunity for escape. The door opened, and he was off like a shot, sweeping past the detective inspector's trouser legs. The woman with a small boy would be getting home right about now, and it always took them a few minutes to get through the main door. Sherlock dashed down the stairs and slipped past the boy's legs as his mother tried to maneuver her briefcase and the boy's wheeled school bag through the door. He bolted through to the pavement and an overwhelming cacophony of sights, smells, and sounds.

The noise and bustle of John's neighborhood was immediately distracting. Just protecting his own tail from pedestrian feet was a challenge. Sherlock had thought so long about escaping that he hadn't entirely considered what he was going to do or where he was going to go. The man in the alley's son needed to be found, Molly had to realize that there was a connection, even a tenuous one. She would know, surely, as soon as Lestrade provided her with that information, but if Lestrade didn't see the connection, would he even bother – and did anyone actually pay attention to anything Molly Hooper ever said?

Sherlock yowled as two strong hands gripped him and scooped him up from the pavement. He found himself no longer seeing the feet of passers-by but John's very annoyed face.

"You, Midnight, are an absolute pain in the arse and I have no idea why Molly hasn't put you right back where you came from," John grumbled as he hauled a struggling Sherlock back into the building.

"But I need to find him – that man is the key," Sherlock protested. Lestrade showed John his notebook.

"Would you look at that? He was chewing on it."

"I was not merely chewing!" Sherlock protested, because although the leather had a pleasant quality for chewing reading had been his intent.

"Are you kidding me?" John asked. He plopped Sherlock down on the carpet. "Do we have to keep you in a box when Molly's not around?"

Lestrade eyed Sherlock suspiciously. "There are claw marks in some of the pages. You haven't heard the one about curiosity, have you, cat?"

Sherlock hissed as Lestrade showed John the marked page. If Lestrade was going to be an idiot, he deserved it.

"Murthwaite? What's that?" John said, and Sherlock felt quite smug that someone had noticed his deliberate hint.

"Somewhere in Cumbria. Not much there, horses and holiday lodges. Bloke in the skip – Simmons, he spent some time there. His son supposedly lives around there now, but he seems to have gone missing. Might be our real suspect, or another victim."

"Messy business," John said, shaking his head. "With any luck he turns up and can give you some answers."

Sherlock sighed. He was sure Molly had an answer...if only someone would think to ask her. Because he remembered the last bit of what Molly had told him: that her family had taken their holidays there until she was ten years old, when something awful had happened, and her parents had decided never to go back.


End file.
